


The Tornado Theory

by yekaterina



Category: RuPaul's Drag Race RPF
Genre: F/F, Trans women, dirty bars and dirtier comedy clubs, sound technician trixie, stand-up comedian katya, tragicomedy in the vein of fleabag
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2020-01-02
Updated: 2020-01-15
Packaged: 2021-02-26 04:22:27
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 2
Words: 6,441
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/21887380
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/yekaterina/pseuds/yekaterina
Summary: In fifteen minutes of walking in the yellow-orange blaze of the late-night, Trixie learns of Katya’s most imminent personal growth goals.She wants to relearn the violin this summer, after years of no practice. She wants to convince her family that she didn’t make a mistake six months ago when she quit her job teaching at the French Cultural Center in Boston and moved to comedy’s mecca to start her life over (supplemented by tutoring at UIC and waitressing). She wants to be a better home cook and move into a nice apartment. She wants to get a dog. Most of all, she wants to make friends here so she isn’t lonely anymore.(Trixie is a sound tech for various stand-up showcases all over Chicago. Enter Katya, a bright light of dark humor in a sea of bad comedic timing.)
Relationships: Trixie Mattel/Katya Zamolodchikova
Comments: 20
Kudos: 56





	1. Ginger's Cabaret

**Author's Note:**

> the first ever trixya fic i tried writing back in 2017 (jesus…) casted trixie as a comedian, but i like this iteration much better. this story is inspired by the following: women comedians i adore, weird bars, my quiet obsession with chicago (the city), tornados haunting the midwest, cowgirls, vibrant colors, classic punk, missing katya a lot, and gay winter loneliness.
> 
> this fic also features some spoken Ojibwe, sourced by [ojibwe.org](http://www.ojibwe.org/home/pdf/Ojibwe_Beginner_Dictionary.pdf), [nativetech.org](http://www.nativetech.org/shinob/ojibwelanguage.html), and [ojibwe.lib.umn.edu](https://ojibwe.lib.umn.edu/browse/ojibwe). there's none in this chapter, but translations will be at the end of the chapters where i use it.
> 
> enjoy!

There was a tornado watch this evening, interrupting her grandma’s favorite _Masterpiece Theatre_ program.

When that robotic voice spoke over Heathcliff’s impassioned plea to be haunted, Trixie could have believed it was the lowest low ever experienced by the woman who came of age during the Great Depression.

Missing a moment of _Masterpiece Theatre_ is one of the rare things that winds up the always old and usually unbothered hippie. 

Grandma doesn’t come anywhere near the level of unconsolable indignation when Trixie burns the food, breaks something, forgets to mend the chicken wire, disturbs her when she’s painting, leaves the toilet seat up, washes the truck poorly, or comes home too late into the night and pukes on the rose bushes.

So Trixie never says a single rude word. Definitely nothing about the old woman not accepting the VCR Trixie gifted her a year ago. No, it will continue to sit somewhere in the basement, unused and collecting dust, alongside the other threats of modernization Trixie’s brought into grandma’s prewar abode.

To bring things back to smooth sailing, all Trixie had to do was locate the corresponding literary classic somewhere in the house and recite the passage censored by the National Weather Service. This was easier said than done, thus the chain of events set off by the slight risk of being sucked up into the sky has Trixie onboard a Hiawatha Amtrak headed to Chicago later than usual.

It will be okay: she can get into Ginger’s Cabaret without the boss lady catching her until it’s too late to matter.

*

In a wide-open metropolis with dozens of bars featured in national publications, Ginger’s is a prime example of a place not to visit when in the Windy City. 

For the unscrupulous, it’s a neighborhood cornerstone. It is not shiny or friendly. If Chicago as a whole represses its midwestern manners, Ginger’s never had any to begin with. This has been the humble club’s calling card since its raucous opening day in 1983— swampy, unforgiving, and breaking health codes like they’re records.

Before even stepping foot into the bar, dark omens of what awaits greet you: cigarette butts, broken beer bottles, experimental theatre flyers, and squashed roaches act as the red carpet entrance. The bar’s neon sign (complete with a red-headed cowgirl logo and cursive yellow lettering) illuminates, in spasms, a street rich with the stench of hot dog water and urine, populated by establishments _absolutely_ fronted by the Mafia, as well as a glowing adult theater.

The ambiance spirals even further into crime-scene-chic once inside the belly of the beast.

A desecrated Ronald Reagan pinball machine. Pitchers of beer and overstuffed ashtrays on vinyl-covered tables. Duct-taped, wobbly, stackable wood chairs. Peanut shells littering the dark wood floor. Pool tables featuring stains better left unquestioned. Red paint crumbling off the dusty walls. A rockabilly-obsessed jukebox. Its next-door neighbor, a cigarette machine with a god complex. Multicolor chili pepper lights intertwined with cobwebs, suspended from the tile ceiling. Neon signage and tin cigarette ads. Newspaper clippings about Chicago’s worst: John Wayne Gacy, Richard Speck, Bill Murray. Old West paraphernalia— from mounted revolvers to animal skulls to mugshots and wanted posters. A dirty dance floor, a small stage, and an inadequate office/control booth overlooking it all.

Then the characters who fill the scene: Chicagoans, the grandfathered-in and the newly initiated. Fights break out weekly and sex is had in the spray-painted bathroom, often by the same parties.

It ain’t Cheers, but show Trixie another bar with as much spirit; enough to stay afloat for fifteen years while the yuppies who killed the discos shutter their vanity projects left and right, enough to fend for itself without the help of gangsters, enough to welcome in everyone who doesn’t feel welcome in Boystown. Ginger’s is a scrappy, ruthless street brawler— because it needs to be when it’s up against everything.

Trixie works all over the place. But nowhere else would she rather drink a mug of flat, cheap beer and get paid in cash for doing sound tech, manual labor, and the occasional music gig.

*

Ginger’s biggest night is every third Wednesday when it hosts Midnight Comics.

Beginning at the eponymous hour, it is a showcase of local SNL-hopefuls telling their most sordid tales in ten-minute stretches. Trixie, for better or worse, is responsible for the audience catching every word said into the mic.

Every Midnight show she’s been a part of has blurred into one long performance from hell. It kills her. She’s encountered so many funny people in this city; those who get a train car of tired food service workers or heartbroken Cubs fans rolling, those who can liven up a traffic jam with a terrible sing-along to whatever is on 97.9.

None of these people have ever signed up for Midnight.

This is the painful truth Trixie is reliving as she sneaks into her place of work through the bathroom window.

Then it happens. A noise, unlike anything she’s ever heard inside the bar. Raucous. Loud and strong as a church bell, shaking the walls. She lands on her feet on the toilet seat and stumbles out of the single stall, right into the punk fellow scrawling his name and number on the rattling mirror in permanent marker.

“The hell was that?” Trixie asks. ‘Dicky Boy’, it would seem, shrugs. “A goddamn tornado? Is somebody from Second City here?”

He eyes her up and down. “You kidding, Miss Butch? Just some Boston broad.”

Trixie blinks at him, then opens the bathroom door to a room full of people laughing their asses off, seated in those god awful chairs on the dance floor before a woman lit up harsher than the light of the sun.

“Fuck,” Trixie blurts. Heads in the back row turn to face her. She slams the door shut. Dicky Boy whistles behind her and opens it again, leaving her alone and exposed. Misogynist.

She forces her legs to move and keeps out of sight of Ginger behind the bar. She races up the shoddy stairs to the control booth and slips inside, tells Sasha to _please dim the stage lights you're blinding the woman just do a spotlight_ and after, once she's caught her breath: _what’s her name?_

“Katya,” Sasha answers, in the middle of fulfilling the frantic request. “Last name McCook.”

The small room beneath them darkens to pitch black, save for the soft-edged circle of white wrapping around the woman on stage. Her head tilts up, up to the booth, up to its two-way mirrored glass hiding Trixie behind it.

Katya McCook is not wearing the costume de rigueur of Ginger's— buzzed or dyed hair, heavy makeup, piercings, army surplus, leather, torn pants, high tops or combat boots. It's a good look! Trixie would go for if her grandparents' clothes didn't fill her closet already.

But Katya stands out from the pack. Her hair is a blonde mane held back half-up half-down, opening her face, which is bare. She’s wearing a dark blue t-shirt that reads _Masculin Féminin_ tucked into thick purple bike shorts, with green wool socks pulled up over her ankles. Her shoes are a beat-up pair of grey sneakers. A yellow windbreaker is tied around her slim waist.

She looks like a good girl, though this judgment is marred by the black tattoos covering her arms.

The light sparkles on her neck and ears, catching on a thin gold necklace and small hoop earrings. She’s tanner than the other white girls in the room. Has she arrived from a summery climate into Chicago’s chilly fall? Maybe she’s brought with her some stories that will warm Trixie up.

"And now I see I'm not where I'm supposed to be. I thought this was a bat mitzvah," Katya says. Cue a round of amused giggles. She smiles. “No? Oh well. This next story works just as well. It's set during my puberty. You'll hate to love it."

She’s more than present, easily manipulating the room to do whatever she wants. The beer-and-cigarettes-smelling air vibrates around her. Trixie turns the mic up a notch, reveling in her anonymity.

*

After Katya, there are three more regulars and the show comes to a lackluster close.

Ginger is barking at Katya at the bar, calling her by her last name, which means she likes her and wants her to come back. Once the boss is through with her, a small herd gathers around, speaking over each other as they speak to Katya.

Once Trixie is done in the booth, she’s able to join— in her own way, meaning she watches it all unfold from a couple of stools down, draining a bottle of amber ale.

“I loved the bit about the colonial woman.”

“I know, right? That was a brave one to share.”

“And to wear those shorts, too.”

“My _shorts_ are brave?”

Katya is the final voice, clearly bewildered. She sips on a blood-red drink Ginger made for her as the group looks at each other, then back at her.

Midnight is a welcoming bunch, but tight-knit, unused to new faces. And as with many predominately queer groups, they can get too cozy.

“Oh!" she says, when no one else speaks up. "You mean because my penis is in them for everyone to see. My brave penis. Thank you,” Katya grabs her crotch, shakes her dick, and says _thank you!_ in a squeaky voice. Then she knocks back her drink, sets it down on the bar.

Cue a stunned silence.

Trixie’s fist over her mouth does not squash her hearty laugh. Instead, beer sprays out of her nose. The herd looks over at the disturbance, none too pleased. Katya appears delighted. She rushes over as if Trixie was her best friend in a past life and sits down on the closest stool.

“Hi!” Katya says. She plants a cool hand on Trixie’s forearm resting on the bar. Her nails are painted in an assortment of earth tones. She wads up a bar napkin and dabs it over Trixie's wet face. “You were up in the booth. I saw you coming out. Thanks so much. I felt like I was sitting on top of a Christmas tree. And louder than a jet engine.”

“You’re welcome Katya,” Trixie says, speaking into the napkin. Katya perks up at her name. “I did the sound. I’m Trixie.”

Katya repeats her name back to her, breaking it harshly in half. Her lips are a deep pink and unbroken by the cool winds and she surely tastes like chapstick. She deposits the napkin on the bar and adopts a conspiratorial tone. “Well, Trixie. You just saved my life. 

"Yeah?" Trixie leans to the side to look at the herd mingling with themselves. Katya gasps, pulls her back in by her shoulder, close enough to see the pores on her face. Trixie holds her breath.

“Don't look at them!" she whisper-screams. "Those are crazy people. I should’ve figured someone eventually would call me _brave_ , but I’m surprised it was someone like me. Who talks about a stranger’s dick to their face? I made a point not to talk about my body during my set. For the most part. Did I? Uh oh, I can't even remember...”

“You _are_ brave to wear bike shorts,” Trixie says. “Just in general.”

Katya squints at her. Her eyes are such a bright grey they resemble perfect, reflective marbles. “Funny girl," she says. Then she sniffs Trixie. She has a worthwhile nose; sharp and arched. "Oh. You smell good, too.”

“You as well."

It’s the truth. Katya is funny and she smells like spicy perfume, toasted cigarettes, and a major hint of womanly sweat. It’s sexy. She supposes herself smelling like the firewood she left burning for her grandma is sexy too. In a woman of the woods kind of way.

Katya sits back on her stool and raises a nearby empty beer bottle. “To being funny women who smell good,” she says, biting her tongue in a smile when Trixie clinks her bottle against hers. “Trixie, why are you here? This is a terrible place with terrible people.”

It startles a cough out of Trixie. She could ask the same thing about her.

“But not you, I hope,” Katya adds. She unties her jacket from around her waist. “Hey. It’s so stuffy in here. Don't you think? After you finish your beer, do you want to go for a walk? With a strange woman? Would you mind?”

“With a strange woman? I wouldn’t mind at all.”

*

In fifteen minutes of walking in the yellow-orange blaze of the late-night, Trixie learns of Katya’s most imminent personal growth goals.

She wants to relearn the violin this summer, after years of no practice. She wants to convince her family that she didn’t make a mistake six months ago when she quit her job teaching at the French Cultural Center in Boston and moved to comedy’s mecca to start her life over (supplemented by tutoring at UIC and waitressing). She wants to be a better home cook and move into a nice apartment. She wants to get a dog. Most of all, she wants to make friends here so she isn’t lonely anymore.

Katya talks about herself differently than she did on stage, in the way people who never get to in a thoughtful setting: fully-formed from overdevelopment inside her own head, no fillers, no pauses for laughter.

Trixie speaks sparsely, save for asking Katya more questions. This is by design. Trixie does not talk about herself. When she does, it's meaningless, vague, drivel. And everyone buys it.

So when Katya pries into her harder, Trixie breezily tells her the well worn, watered-down story about how she grew up in Wisconsin, moved here to study audio technology, works around the city, and how that's pretty much it.

No reason for her to know Trixie dropped out of school after her first semester and she lives with her grandma in Milwaukee, among some other offenses. Everyone needs some mystery.

"You're a massive bullshitter, aren't you?" Katya says, after a moment's pause.

"What?"

Katya folds up her arms. "Are you seriously going to act like what you said tells me anything real about you?"

Trixie has no blueprint for how to navigate this. She panics. "Not everyone has a life."

"Don't say that," Katya snaps. The cool air hangs heavy on Trixie's shoulders, weighing her down into the hard concrete. Katya deflates. "I'm sorry. I have no right to yell at you. I don't know you."

"No, you don't."

Katya tightens up again. "I'm sure you'd like to keep it that way."

"Yeah, maybe I would."

Katya recoils. She turns away from Trixie and storms off in the direction they were headed, making a turn onto a street she has no business being on.

"Fuck," Trixie mutters. She catches up to her at the corner owned by an adult video store and its neighboring sex shop.

She takes Katya by the arm. "I'm sorry," Trixie says. Katya shrugs her off, but grabs her arm just like Trixie did, only to shove her away again. It’s disorienting. Trixie wishes she’d do it again, this time not letting go.

Katya's glaring at her. She glows pink in the neon light.

"I'm sorry," Trixie repeats. "I don't want you to go away."

Her face softens. She shrugs, downcast. "You were being an ass."

"I was," Trixie agrees. She wants to hug Katya. She never wants to hug people.

"Like, a huge ass."

"Massive," she says. It manages to open a tiny smile on Katya's lips.

"A massive ass with a massive ass."

Trixie fights off a grin. "We should get off this street."

"Yes, okay, thank you, I was getting lost."

Trixie leads her back to Ginger's, which is locked up, no thanks to Trixie. Whoops. She’ll be hearing about this one.

Everyone else has gone. They stand around in a silence that's divided unevenly between amicable and awkward. Katya peels her jacket off and holds it in her arms. Trixie nods down at her chest, briefly taking in her small, perky tits.

“What’s your shirt about?" Trixie asks. "I like it.”

“You do? Thanks. It’s this French movie from the ‘60s. About the children of Karl Marx and Coca Cola. You should watch it.”

“I will—”

“And tell me about it.”

Trixie bites her lip. “—I will.”

Katya peers up at her, blatantly reading her like a book. “You don’t smile, huh?”

“Mine is horrible,” Trixie explains. Katya scrunches up her face. “It is. You could tell I’m from the Midwest from the International Space Station.”

“Shut up!” Katya bounces, emphasizing her joking-frustration. “But whatever, I’ll let you have that.”

“Thank you.”

“You’re welcome,” Katya says, yawning. Trixie tucks her hands into her jacket pockets. “Hey,” she says, giving Trixie’s arm a gentle punch. “Hey, Trixie, I’m gonna head home.”

As was expected. Trixie had no inkling she'd be changing her plan to crash at her friend Shea’s.

It’s her safe house in the city. There’s a crushed-velvet mustard couch for her to sleep on and noises keep her company long after Shea has fallen asleep. Sirens from the hospital, couples arguing on fire escapes or shouting down goodbyes to their friends, the red line grinding by, and unified voices rising out of Wrigley Field.

When she goes home to the countryside of Milwaukee, the night is so expansive, dark, starry, absent from the shroud of artificial lights. It’s where cows roam, whether their fields are a lush green or blanketed with snow. Where billboards advertise Jesus instead of news stations and sodas.

The entire world is a small, lonely place when there’s a single family for every acre of land. When she lies awake at night in her grandma’s attic, all there is to reassure Trixie she is not the last living woman on this blue-green ball in space is the sound of a plane roaring overhead.

“Alright," Trixie says. "Goodnight, Katya. This was nice...” Katya’s face falls further with every word and she shuts Trixie up by taking hold of her hand. Katya's palm is damp, meaty, and she's squeezing Trixie's bones into dust. Trixie lifts up their joined fingers like she's holding up a strange animal—

Which it is. To her. _Closeness_ , that is.

"Do you want me to come with you?” Trixie asks.

Katya's eyes widen and she snatches her hand away. “What kind of woman do you think I am?" she says, then adds in the same breath, "Yes, dingus. Yes, I do.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> thanks for reading! i have the second chapter fully done, but i won't be releasing it for a little while. <3


	2. Katya's Apartment

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> They're back to lying in the not-so-quiet. A train roars by. Or maybe it's just her heart in her ears. Katya, cast in a rainbow glow by her cheap string lights, resembles a religious figure in a stained-glass window.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> posting this a day early than i said i would on my blog... hello! i have over 12k of this written, so one could surmise that i've been having fun writing it. i hope you have fun reading this chapter. if you've read my previous works, you'll notice i have certain themes/issues i like writing time and time again. consider this me refining my writing chops. but also... i just love certain character struggles... anyway, enjoy!

Katya falls asleep on the cab ride to her apartment, nestled into Trixie’s shoulder. She snores. Her mouth hangs open, slipping a strand of drool onto Trixie’s wool jacket.

They arrive to the sound of a barking dog running down the street and the final verse of a pubescent rendition of X’s “I Must Not Think Bad Thoughts”, courtesy of a party pouring from an open, broken window. Katya remains out like a light.

It begins raining fat plums of water fast, turning the grey road slick black and sending bottles and plastic bags across the landscape like yachts sailing on Belmont Harbor. Trixie hasn't been on this street before, but she's been to several of its twins. No wonder Katya can afford to live alone. Her building is a Chicago relative of those depressing towers in the former Soviet Union.

Trixie doesn’t have the heart to disturb sleeping beauty, but their driver does. Katya surges awake at the blaring of his horn.

“Oh!” she whispers, embarrassed. Trixie doesn’t feel weird thumbing away the spit on Katya’s chin. “Fuck. Sorry.”

“You’re tired, it’s okay. Let me walk you up?”

They split the fare, not skimping on the tip, even though Trixie didn’t appreciate the rudeness.

The building is cold. A shoeless teenager — skinny jeans, a torn-up sweater, a warm smile — greets Katya on the staircase as he fireman-carries a drunk friend. He takes care to be gentle, but he still stomps past them and down the littered steps, two at a time, to catch the cab before the driver can peel the fuck outta there.

Katya introduces him as “Jesse from apartment 3B,” while they watch him and Drunk Friend get in the cab. “Sweet kid. Mom’s usually gone... I make him dinner, sometimes. He loves my beef stroganoff.”

"He should work for the CFD," Trixie says.

Katya laughs. "He wants to be a gonzo journalist."

At her door, a soaked Katya deflates, resting her wet head against the scratched brown paint. Apartment 3C. Trixie looks past her, to the staircase, to show she can follow a path that doesn’t lead to her bed. Katya shakes her head no, pulls her in by the lapel of her shirt.

“I’d like you to come in," Katya says. "You could stay for the night, you know. It’s late and it's rainy… Or I can call you a cab if that's what you want.”

“I want to come in.”

Her apartment is dark. The floor is some odd color of wood and the walls are maybe brown. Katya switches on a weak lamp covered by a red hanky, but she doesn’t switch on the overhead or light any of the candles that appear one by one out of nowhere. Katya’s ease of navigation around the vague shapes inside the tiny, sparse room suggests she never does.

Streetlights faintly cut through the open blinds. Of what Trixie can see, the place is the _definition_ of sparse, resembling more-so the dorm room of an old monk than the residence of a twenty-something woman. However, she will go out on a limb here and assume most monasteries do not reek of pot.

Katya pulls off her jacket and disappears into the dark. It sounds like she drops her shoes onto a metal rack. Then, a horrible sound: like claws scratching against the windows. Katya yelps. Trixie almost pees her pants.

"By the way, my apartment is definitely haunted, by like, a thousand ghouls—" Katya reappears. "Hey, can you see, Trixie?”

“Yeah—”

Trixie’s hip bumps into something. A book falls off of it, then another, then another. Katya howls with laughter and makes her way right back to Trixie. She waves off her intention to pick up after herself. It’s probably for the best. More books appear on the _thing_ , whatever it is.

“—You’re gonna need glasses if you keep this up."

“I already do,” Katya says. There’s no follow-up. She takes Trixie’s hand. "Let me lead."

Her bedroom is radiant with her personality. Trixie is immediately more comfortable, even as her skin is cold and her clothes are dripping.

Framed pictures are lined up against the walls. One of them appears to be her as a child; she had the hair of Mia Farrow in _Rosemary's Baby_. There are multiple of her with her family, then a black-and-white photo of a brunette woman in a t-shirt and blue jeans. Trixie thinks she’s Patti Smith, then figures she’s a comedian, sure to be Katya’s idol. A scattered pile of concert flyers sit on the floor.

Her bed is full-size, low to the ground, held up by a thin red metal frame. A red and white patchwork quilt and cream pillows cover it, half-made. To the right of the bed is a wooden nightstand. On top is a stained glass lamp, a desk fan, a black landline phone, a photo frame, and a prayer candle. Tacked on the wall to the left of the bed is the flag of the Soviet Union, hanging vertically.

The antique lamp splits its duties illuminating the closet-sized room with two strands of colorful string lights. One strand sits in a heap on the floor and the other is strung up haphazardly on the wall opposite the bed, above the small black TV that sits on two yellow milk crates bolted down to a wooden plank with wheels on the bottom. Shabby, but ingenious. On top of the TV is a large Matryoshka doll and a mini replica of Manneken Pis.

A metal tray table stands next to the TV. Stacked up high on it are VHS tapes and game cartridges, crowding the Sega Genesis.

Trixie picks up one of the controllers. “You play video games?”

“Yeah,” Katya yawns. She takes out her earrings, removes her necklace, lets down her hair, then turns off the lamp. “Do you? Maybe we can play together sometime.”

Katya wastes no time in stripping down to her underwear, save for her t-shirt that she pulls a non-matching red bra out of. She sets her clothes out to dry on the hissing radiator. Trixie follows suit and follows her into bed.

Katya faces the window. Trixie stares at the back of her head.

The quilt is soft and imbued with the faint smell of night sweats and cigarettes. Trixie pets the fraying fabric in the space between their bodies, not at all tired, not at all interested in leaving Katya’s side. 

The party next door has died. Trixie eventually drifts off to the kids talking amongst themselves as they file out of Jesse's apartment and into the night.

“Are you awake?” Katya asks.

In place of waiting for an answer, Katya rolls over. She runs a hand from Trixie’s shoulder to her cheek, then down to the collar of her shirt. Trixie’s body goes slack and heavy. Katya stares at her mouth.

Trixie exhales. “Katya.”

Katya throws herself up against Trixie’s chest and kisses her. Trixie kisses her back, closed-mouthed, opened, on her neck, on her chin— Katya takes Trixie’s head in her hands and eases her off, but not without a parting, slow suck on her bottom lip.

They're back to lying in the not-so-quiet. A train roars by. Or maybe it's just her heart in her ears. Katya, cast in a rainbow glow by her cheap string lights, resembles a religious figure in a stained-glass window.

Being held by her is some kind of compelling force because the next thing Trixie knows she asks, “Why’d you come to Ginger’s tonight? You’ve been here for a while, doing stand-up all over town, right? You live close enough by, but I’ve never seen you before. What made you show up? Someone joking about it at another club or something—”

Katya retracts her hands, taking something inside of Trixie with her. “I thought you wouldn’t be there."

Trixie doesn’t know how to respond, so she doesn’t try. Katya digs her fingers into her pillow.

“I’ve been to Ginger’s before, for Midnight Comics. Three months ago. I saw you changing out the microphone before the showcase. I thought you were the most handsome thing I’d ever seen. You had this cute little focused face and you were wearing a tank top and cargo shorts— I don’t remember what shoes...”

“Boots,” Trixie suggests, hushed and rough. Sandpaper is replacing the skin in her throat.

Katya laughs, then quiets. “Then you tested the sound. You sang part of "Lola", by The Kinks. I'd never heard it before. I couldn’t get on stage after seeing you. I told the M.C., _Pearl_ , not to announce my name.”

“I- I didn't even see you. I wish I had seen you,” Trixie offers, because she has nothing else. A strange kind of sensation is taking hold of her, somewhere between awe and panic.

“You didn’t see me because I can make myself invisible,” she explains. “Besides, I left once I saw you go up into the booth. As fast as I could. I came here and called the UIC library to find out what the song was."

Katya shuts her eyes. Her mouth remains open, feeding Trixie words she struggles to digest, let alone chew, despite how empty her stomach has been for years.

"I could only talk to you tonight because I’d had a couple of good sets since the last time I saw you and I felt good about how I did tonight. Honestly, I wouldn’t have gone on stage at all if I knew you’d be there. You weren’t around when I scoped out the scene... I heard Ginger complaining that her sound girl skipped out, so I thought I was in the clear. Then out of nowhere, there you were.”

The sounds of the outside world haven't dissipated in respect to Katya’s confession. Regardless, Trixie can’t hear anyone or anything that isn’t the woman lying next to her.

“That was a lot to say,” Katya whispers. “But I had to say it. Or else I’d go nuts.”

Trixie wraps her hand over Katya’s. “I feel like an idiot for not noticing you before. I’m sorry.”

“Don’t. Don't be,” Katya says. She shakes her head and kisses Trixie’s hand. It trembles under her lips. Katya kisses it again, then licks over her fingers.

Trixie remains idle until it becomes necessary for her to slot her fingers into Katya’s welcoming mouth. Trixie moans. Katya sucks hard, quieting her down to a choked whimper. Trixie opens her own mouth and Katya sticks her fingers inside.

Their arms form an X over the bedsheets. It’s kind of odd and juvenile, presexual, but this thought dissipates as her dick grows between her legs. Katya whines around her fingers, indicating the high likelihood of the same sensation occurring for her.

On a dime, Katya spits Trixie's fingers out and rolls back over. Trixie just as quickly readies herself for either rejection or something more, but her hopes win out and Katya pushes back into her, dragging her ass over Trixie’s dick, to the stupidly-surprised satisfaction of them both. Katya makes a noise that rolls Trixie's brain over inside her skull.

“Can I touch you?” Trixie whispers. Katya frantically nods her consent.

Trixie slides her arm under Katya to wrap a hand around her stomach and she slips her other hand into Katya’s underwear and begins gently pulling on her dick.

She has a faceful of Katya's soft hair to keep her grounded, to not come too fast, otherwise, the increasingly reckless abandon of Katya’s grinding would finish her. Katya isn’t as hard as she is, but Trixie chalks that up to her being on hormones rather than fraudulent interest.

“I want more,” Katya whines. Trixie buries her face further into Katya’s hair, to press her nose against her sweaty neck. “Do you? Just a little more.”

Trixie moans her affirmative. Katya pulls down her underwear and reaches back to frantically tug Trixie’s down as well, freeing her dick and letting her rut against Katya bare. Her asscheeks are soft, tight, and warm, growing slick with Trixie’s wetness dribbling out of her dick. 

This is more than enough for her. She’d have to be a complete dumbass not to see this is more than enough for Katya too, the way she jerks with every tug Trixie gives her and holds tight onto Trixie’s hip. And anyway, it’ll have to be. For tonight.

“Oh my God,” Katya whimpers. “You’re big. Do you mind if I say that?”

Katya’s only about an inch shorter than Trixie, but not nearly as girthy, and not uncut.

“No, I like it,” Trixie says, breathing shortly. She manages to have it in her to parry back, “Do you mind if I say you’re not small yourself?”

Katya snorts. “Shut up,” she says, sighing it a little. Trixie fists her dick harder. “Fuck, Trixie…”

They continue to grind roughly together, messing up the bed and sweating onto each other’s skin. It’s a dirty sleepover, the kind Trixie fantasized about growing up. 

Katya lets go of Trixie’s hip to fondle her balls, and in turn, Trixie moves her fingers from Katya’s trembling stomach and slips them under her t-shirt. She grips her soft breast in hand, imagining it in her mouth, imagining herself with breasts, imagining Katya doing the same to her.

She pinches Katya’s nipple. Katya sinks her head further into her pillow and Trixie knows she’s biting it.

“Feels that good?” Trixie asks.

“Mhm.”

“Pillow biter,” Trixie says, shocking herself. Katya gasps. Trixie's never dirty-talked, let alone been insulting in bed. Her hand stills on Katya’s dick, anticipating being told to stop and get out. Katya wraps her hand around Trixie’s and pulls at her own dick for her until she gets the picture. Trixie sighs, in a choked-up combination of relief and bubbling-over arousal.

Trixie pinches her nipple again and Katya screams into her pillow, the warning shot for her coming hot and sticky, but very little, over Trixie’s hand. Trixie comes immediately after, coating the cleft of Katya’s ass.

*

In the morning Katya’s apartment is prettier, natural light working its magic.

The walls are exposed brick and can convince you it’s intentional, not an over-look. The wood flooring is a pleasant white and isn’t as cold as it was when Trixie went to the bathroom, now that Katya has a mini portable space heater thrumming along. She has an art easel and painting supplies over a blue tarp. Thriving plants line the windowsills, the pillows populating the brown leather loveseat on are colorful and soft to the touch, and the red metal kitchen table they’re sitting at is straight out of a '50s cafeteria. 

“It’s not so bad here. When I open the windows, I can hear church bells at twelve, then again at six,” Katya says, peering over her Red Sox mug. It’s disconcerting how much of a mind reader she is. “It’s a Catholic church. Just like the ones back in Boston! _Whaddya know_.”

“Are you Catholic?”

“Sometimes. When I get depressed. Or horny—” she bumps Trixie’s ankle with her own. “Or hungry. I was very Catholic before making this,” she gestures grandly to the breakfast of scrambled eggs and buttered toast.

Katya is a much better cook than Trixie. She's been devouring the hot meal in a daze.

Food tastes best when someone makes it for you. She’s forgotten this in the years since the primary cook at home switched from her grandma to herself.

She comes to when she's finished, realizes she’s hunched over her plate like an animal and sits up. Across the table, Katya is sitting with her chin in her hand, watching Trixie.

“I want to get to know you,” Katya says.

“I know,” Trixie says. Katya blinks at her, waiting for more. Nothing comes out.

Katya’s hands fly around her face. “I’m sorry? What the hell does that mean?”

“It means… Katya, I’m just a boring, dumb, hick. I live—” she halts, because she’s never said this much before, but she’s also never had anyone talk to her like Katya has, so she elects to carry on, just this once. “I live with my grandma. I don’t have a real job. Or a degree. I’m not on hormones. I can't do anything right. And, and I probably drink too much.”

“So?”

Katya should be running, should be laughing at Trixie, should be kicking her out. She doesn't do any of those things. She just sits there, waiting for an answer.

“So _,_ ” Trixie repeats. She's burning up from the inside. “You’re wrong.”

Katya makes a face. She clears the table deftly, not letting Trixie cut in to help, reminding her that she works as a waitress.

Trixie follows her into the kitchen. She intends to walk right over to Katya, but she ends up idling by the counter. She snatches up a green egg timer. It gives her something to do with herself.

“I don’t have much of a life to share with someone," Trixie says. "Outside of all _that_. I wish I did, after everything you said last night.”

“Is that so?” Katya snaps, more than asks.

Trixie shuts up. Katya is visibly disheartened, but she lets Trixie come closer. They stand side by side until all the dishes are done.

“Thanks,” Katya tells her, just above a whisper.

Trixie, despite the magnetic pull, edges away, giving her some space. Katya remains at the sink and fills a glass of water.

“I was wrong,” Trixie says out of nowhere, against her better judgment. Something is telling her to be an idiot, so she says, "I shouldn't have said any of that shit. I don't know why I do these things. I mean, I do— it makes me nervous."

Katya shuts off the sink. "I know can come off too strong."

"It wasn't that. Or, just a little. A little," Trixie assures her. Katya nods quickly. "But I want to get to know you too. If that means you have to find me out, then, fuck, alright. So be it."

A smile spreads across Katya's face. "Good," she says. She puts her hand to Trixie's chest. "Thank you, Trixie."

Trixie is reeling, already reliving this moment, divided between exhilaration and regret. Katya's hand presses harder into her. She might be swaying a little.

Katya's eyes drop to Trixie's mouth. "Hey," she says. "You're smiling."

"I should get going," Trixie blurts. Katya stops touching her. "I live in the backwoods of Milwaukee."

“Oh. Yeah, of course. You need anything before you head out?” Katya eyes her, a little hurt, but sweet. Trixie is embarrassed to exist.

“No, thank you. I’m good."

“Do you _want_ anything?”

She’s either deaf to or uncaring about Trixie’s hesitance to be overexposed to someone who is more of a person than she is. Katya’s solid. Trixie is see-through.

Still— she hasn’t been asked what she wants in a long, long time. That, and the whole opening her heart up (a tiny bit) to someone who seems to want it, gets her kinda sprung. 

Trixie is silent, considering, then begins undoing her pants. It elicits a surprised, sharp laugh out of Katya, one that she softens with her palm. She’s nodding, as if to say _Do go on…_ so Trixie does. Her pants and underwear fall down to her ankles.

Katya sets down her glass and gets on her knees before Trixie. Her eyes roam over Trixie’s dick. She tilts her head to the side, thinking it over, as if she wasn’t gagging for it last night.

“You want me to give you oral pleasure?” Katya says. It’s only then she looks up at her. "You want me to make you feel good?"

It’s nearly too much. Those big, innocent eyes. Inside Trixie’s stomach is a furnace ready to blow up. Katya scratches up Trixie’s thighs slowly, then around the backs of them and up to her ass. She digs her fingers in hard.

“Yes,” Trixie begs. “And I want to do the same for you.”

“I want that too,” Katya says, and takes Trixie’s dick into her mouth.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> :)
> 
> since i mentioned a couple songs in this chapter, i might as well make public the playlist i made for this fic now. listen here, if interested: https://open.spotify.com/playlist/1q3wP8GgdsVvsimJNA2pF0?si=FWwxA6YtRUGHT0FI3eIrkg
> 
> if you like this story, consider buying me a coffee here: https://ko-fi.com/yekaterina


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